| Crudely arranged in a spot not even Christ can claim
|
| It’s been that way for too long to save our hairs from grey
|
| I loved you since you were a child before we both grew our dirty mouths
|
| «So what?» |
| you say. |
| It’s not okay — still wearing a blood-soaked filthy blouse
|
| «For every God we claimed was good, did you think we’d be left rotting in the
|
| woods?»
|
| «You can blame us for the youth we had but god you loved me so goddamn bad.»
|
| To my dismay you speak the truth but only when you want me for yourself
|
| It’s a bitter fruit, a sympathetic pill, writhing through the salt-soaked rings
|
| of hell
|
| There are depths that can’t be seen: the holy mess when you can’t forgive
|
| yourself
|
| Egyptian flowers, some ancient war, an angel in your teeth on the ballroom floor
|
| You run out crying towards my car as a gesture for your fear of old age
|
| I follow your indulgent pain, I ask you do you feel so safe?
|
| You say «Fuck your face and fuck your blame! |
| The only thing I claim is your
|
| last name!»
|
| Now I know my fear and I know my place my bank account and my Welsh last name
|
| We are hollow
|
| We are vacant
|
| We are happy with death in mind
|
| We are pregnant
|
| We are shallow
|
| We are fixed on a cruel dark plight
|
| We are fixed on a broken-down, some jumbled, unfortunate lie |